


Unremembered As Old Rain

by Erradianwhocantread, fidelishaereticus



Series: common road/uncommon time [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Agender Character, Gen, Pining, Rule 63, drinking around a campfire, past finrod/barahir, past finrod/beor, reembodied finrod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 05:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erradianwhocantread/pseuds/Erradianwhocantread, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fidelishaereticus/pseuds/fidelishaereticus
Summary: A young Aragorn catches the person who has been trailing her for days, which leads to getting drunk and maudlin with the erstwhile lord of Nargothrond around a campfire in the wilds of what used to be Arnor.





	Unremembered As Old Rain

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Rule 63 Aragorn and agender Finrod. If that is not to your liking then you will probably not like this.
> 
> 2\. Finrod has come back to Middle Earth after their reembodiment and has spent some quality time with Galadriel, some quality time exploring and doing amatuer cultural anthropology, and is now spending quality time stalking I mean protecting the heir of Barahir from the various dangers that lurk in the wilds and are beyond the skill of even the best Ranger.
> 
> 3\. Aragorn is probably somewhere between 20 and 40
> 
> 4\. You can read this as shippy or not it is left purposefully ambiguous
> 
> 5\. Shoutout as per usual to tumblr user fidelishaereticus for inspiration and edits.

_ After all, my erstwhile dear, _

_ My no-longer cherished, _

_ Need we say it was not love, _

_ Just because it perished? _

 

* * *

 

Someone was watching her, had been for days, following her as she tried to pick her way back to Rivendell, back to some semblance of safety. Aragorn had decided for sure she was being followed two days ago. Whoever it was was an expert, which made them all the more dangerous. And she was alone. Her party of rangers had had to split up in an effort to draw as many Orcs away from the little settlement in as many directions as possible. She’d seen to it that none of the ones that had run after her would trouble anyone again. Or so she had thought. She could feel the eyes on her as she began gathering wood for a fire in the clearing she’d stopped in. She built the fire as if nothing was amiss, as if she were merely overtired, merely in need of a rest before continuing on, confident as a ranger could ever be that she had nothing to fear from enemies this night. Not as if she were laying a trap. As predicted, whoever was following her moved closer as they saw her relax before the firelight. She could not hear them so much as sense them. It was uncanny. And it did not bode well for her hunter being something easily defeated like an Orc or a Man. She rose and left the circle of the firelight, making sure to pass close to where she was sure they lurked, and whoever it was shrank back behind the trunk of a beech. Their shadow had shifted in the firelight. Aragorn made as if she were going to relieve herself, waited for the creature to become complacent again as she made a show of redoing her trousers and returning to the fire. They followed her too close, and she whirled on them, catching the corner of their cloak as the tried to spring away. She flung the creature to the ground and pinned them, her hunting knife in her hand, and made to press it to the creature’s throat when she saw their face… 

 

An Elf. A flame-eyed Elf of Aman. A flame-eyed Elf with a look of shock on their fair face crying “Wait!” 

 

Befuddlement slackened Aragorn’s grip and had her hesitating. It would have been easy for the Elf to flip her onto her back, take her knife, make an end of her. And yet they made no move to do so. They did not even struggle. They gaped at each other for what felt, to Aragorn, like an Age in the flickering light before she found her voice and her senses. “Why were you following me?” she demanded, her grip on her knife becoming firm again. But she did not press the blade to the Elf’s throat. Before tonight, treating one of the Eldar in such a manner would never have occurred to her. But she knew neither the identity nor the purpose of this one, and it was possible for the servants of the Enemy to wear many guises.

 

The Elf’s gaze was steady, surprised but unafraid. “I can explain that,” they said.

 

Aragorn wanted to get caught up in the sweetness of the voice, the fairness of the form and features, the underlying friendliness and goodwill emanating from the eyes, but trusting to fair forms was not what had kept her alive to see more days than her mother had. “Who are you? Where do you come from? Don’t try to tell me Imladris, for I would recognize you and I do not!” 

 

A pang of… something deep and inscrutable crossed the Elf’s face and they sighed with what was not quite regret. For all she had been raised with them, Aragorn still found the countenances of those whose eyes burned with the ancient Light difficult to read. “I come not from Imladris, or from anywhere recently, for I have been long wandering. I have been following you, but only to offer protection where it has been needed. You remember several months ago, when that great Orc had you down, and you were injured and alone? A strange archer felled it and you did not stay to see the provenance of the arrow?” 

 

Aragorn had not told anyone of that. The brush with death, the wildness and unfriendliness of that land, and the fear that whoever had shot the Orc would be no kinder to a less foul intruder in their territory had set her fleeing away as fast as she could, grateful but unquestioning of her luck. There was no way this Elf could know about it unless they had been there, and she had been alone but for her dead foe and whoever had made the shot. 

 

“As I’m sure you have guessed now, the arrow was mine. For the matter of my name, scion of Barahir, I have had many. But you would know best those of Finrod and of Felagund.” Aragorn gaped once again, and this time the knife slid from her shaking fingers to thunk softly against the forest floor. “I see you still wear my ring. I am glad to see it has not been lost.”

 

In horror Aragorn lept awkwardly off the Elf, off the  _ Lord of Nargothrond  _ and knelt, her head bent low, by their feet. “Oh, pardon me, my lord, pardon me, for--” 

 

A hand reached to tilt her chin gently upwards, and the Elf,  _ Finrod Felagund, _ of whom she had heard such stories, a figure of the ancient days, of myth, smiled at her, fair face alight with mirth and yet eyes bright with sorrow, with tears. “No, no. You must not kneel to me. And it is I who should apologize for my discourtesy in following you. These are dark times. You had every reason to be suspicious. And please, you may call me Finrod.” The Elf was pulling her to her feet and Aragorn… couldn’t remember suddenly the proper grammar to use. For she had always heard the songs of Felagund use the masculine, yet the Lady Galadriel and some others who had known Felagund had used the feminine, and Aragorn could find no clues in the Elf’s body… “Either will do. I was never a particular devotee of grammar, and I confess it has always brought me no small delight to make a mess of the lore-master’s strict rules… Oh, I am sorry,” said Finrod, as he… she… realized how discomfited Aragorn was at having her mind peered into, “I have not been much among Men in… well, quite some time.” There again was that regret that was more than regret. “You have been much in danger of late, Aragorn, heir of Isildur and so of Elros and so of Beor. Your safety was my concern. Now that you have discovered me, may I share your fire?”

 

Aragorn nodded, dazed, and the Elf sat before the little fire and gestured companionably for Aragorn to do the same. A thousand questions sprang to her mind and died on her tongue. Finrod regarded her strangely, like she were a fond relative, and yet like they stared not at Aragorn but at a relic of one loved well and long since gone. “You are melancholy,” Aragorn finally ventured.

 

“If I am it is no more so than are many of the Eldar. Our joy is ever mixed with grief.” 

 

“And yet it seems that this grief is attached to me somehow. And I do not understand why.”

 

“It is. As is the joy. You remind me much of one well loved and lost to me.” The confusion did not leave Aragorn’s face, and so Finrod continued. “In your face I see the face of my dear Barahir of old returned to me, and yet not so. And so your company is both sweet and bitter.”

 

Aragorn felt as if she were asking a very stupid question with an obvious and well-known answer. “But… your love was for Amaire, was it not?”

 

Finrod made a noise between a laugh and a scoff. “I would have thought the libraries of Imladris held something more accurate than Pengolodh’s account. Do… do you truly not know of what I speak?”

 

“I know of your friendship to Beor, of your oath to Barahir after she saved your life, of your faithfulness to Beren…” Aragorn trailed off as she saw Finrod’s face cloud with a deep sorrow.

 

“Friendship…” the Elf muttered to themself, shaking their head. “I will tell you, but it is a long tale. And I believe I am correct in my recollection that your kind are still much like mine, and prefer long tales to be accompanied by strong drink.” Aragorn could not deny that. “Good.” Finrod reached into their clothes and pulled out a skin, which they tossed to Aragorn. “It is quite strong, something Beor introduced me to, a distillation of potatoes. You still drink it?” Aragorn answered with a smirk and tipped the skin to her lips. She was glad to have the calming warmth of liquor after the terror of being hunted and the astonishment of meeting her hunter. “I made a spectacle of myself the first time I had it. We’d not yet applied distillation to such purposes.” 

 

“Is that how the story begins, then? One of the first of the Edain getting the Elvenking embarrassingly drunk?”

 

“No. Though that is a merry tale.” Aragorn wondered, if it was so merry, why her companion looked so intently at her, and with such sorrow. She had expected the tale to be sung, as they commonly were, but perhaps this one had not been put to verse, or the melody had been lost. Before her, her companion unfolded a two-part love-story of such might, such beauty, and such tragedy that she could scarce believe it had been left out of the great accounts. The skin was halfway to empty by the time Finrod finished her tale, and both their faces were streaked with tears. 

 

They sat in silence for some time after. Aragorn regarded the ring on her hand, the ring given not in gratitude but in a true exchange of love, that had led the Elf sitting by her to a most brutal death. She was not worthy of it. She was not worthy of the protection Finrod had apparently been giving to her. If she’d known the story, known what the ring had really meant, she would never have considered… but that was no excuse. She pulled it from her finger. “You should have it, my lord, not I. And I must ask pardon of you once again. I have not treasured it as I should. It is only by chance that I still possess it. Had a friend not recognized me and taken me in I would have sold it for shelter from the storms last winter. I had nothing else of value and they were brutal, yet had I known… you should have it back.”

 

Finrod laughed sadly, in the peculiar manner of the Elves. “No. I will never accept its return. I am glad that you did not sell it, though its purpose has always been to serve the wellbeing of the heirs of Barahir. Had selling it ensured your survival, it would have been well done.”

 

Guilt blossomed within Aragorn. Somehow the pardon made it worse. If she did not deserve the ring itself, if she was unworthy of the weighty lineage of her forbears (and how could Strider the Ranger not be?) then she certainly was unworthy of Finrod’s forbearance. She took a long, ill-advised swig from the skin, and found, when she finished with it, that Finrod had placed a hand upon her shoulder. “Beren nearly did the same,” said Finrod, and Aragorn choked and spluttered at them to hear such an impossibility. “Though her enemy was starvation, not cold, and she was saved from it not by chance as you were, but because the wild she was in was inhabited only by birds and beasts, and they have little use for Elvish rings.” Finrod’s other hand guided the ring back to its erstwhile place on Aragorn’s finger.

 

“Twould make a most uncomfortable nest for fledglings, I suppose.” Jests and barbs had ever been the armor Aragorn found hardest to shed. Finrod did not scoff, did not roll their eyes or shake their head, did not smile. The sorrow on their face (not simply sorrow, Aragorn realized now that her face was so close, but an impossible yearning) only deepened. “If my company inflames your grief, my lord, I will go.”

 

“No. No, it is good to remember. But you know how it is with us. You would not call what we do remembering, but… reliving. And so time cannot lessen a loss for us, as it can for you.” Yes, Aragorn was familiar with it, and found it cruelly backwards, that those who had so little time to suffer from such losses should the easier recover. Finrod was staring into her face again in that way that was both unsettling and deeply comforting. “Yes, it is good to be reminded so of past joys. But I have told you that you should call me Finrod only. None of your house should ever call me lord. Besides,” they said, poking absently at the fire with her boot, “I am no longer lord of anything.”

 

“You are no more a lord than I am a king then, Felagund?”

 

Finrod shook their head. “King you are, Aragorn, and king you shall be yet. And king I have been, and unkinged, and king I shall never be again.”

 

If the tales were true, then Finrod Felagund possessed clear foresight, and this was no empty statement. Aragorn generally tried not to think about the prophecies and the prerogatives of her lineage. The feelings that surrounded them were muddy, confused, frightening even, and hardly relevant to her current life. Her foretold reign was hardly something she wished to discuss with this Elf. Finrod had grown almost maudlin with the drink and, Aragorn assumed, memories. “You spoke of past joy, Felagund,” she said, “I would rather you allow me to turn you to present ones. So far we have passed our night in sadness, and that, as far as my people are concerned, is a waste of good drink and good company.”

 

Finrod looked sharply at her and their eyes sparkled in a way Aragorn had never seen in Imladris and they laughed, really laughed, laughed like spring, all the rhime of sorrow melted away. “So it is, Aragorn, so it is! Tell, what present joys have you in mind?”


End file.
